


real love affairs are heavy spells

by notorious



Category: Legacies (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, pastries and filth, that’s the whole thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25113508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notorious/pseuds/notorious
Summary: beignets and booty calls.
Relationships: Hope Mikaelson/Lizzie Saltzman
Comments: 6
Kudos: 97





	real love affairs are heavy spells

**Author's Note:**

> maybe a tiny bit edited. i don’t know. i’m on a roll today, so catch me forgetting how to write anything ever again when i wake up tomorrow. title from sleeping angel by stevie nicks.

Hope’s not sure she knows the difference between pain and enlightenment any longer, if there is any difference at all. In her experience one does not come without the other, not really, not in this version of the world, and it’s something that’s taken nearly all of her years to come to terms with.

It’s all right now, she supposes, because once you understand a concept it becomes easier to control. With Hope control becomes avoidance.

It works, for the most part. 

Mostly.

Of all the things she won’t be able to control — to  _ avoid _ — she thinks her favorite might be Elizabeth Saltzman.

Lizzie, who is brazen and brave, emotional and extroverted, defensive and delicate, and who is without a shred of a doubt in complete control of Hope Mikaelson.

Wasn’t supposed to be that way, but Hope’s no longer bothered that it is. She can still kid herself into thinking she has some sort of say in the goings on, and that’s enough for what it is. For now.

“Sit,” Lizzie tells her late one night, curfew long since come and gone.

Hope sits.

Only light in the kitchen comes from the tracks beneath the cabinets. A window’s open, letting in the whisper of the wind and the dull chirp of distant crickets. It’s eerie, she thinks, in a sexy kind of way.

“What’s happening?” Hope tips her head back, peers up at Lizzie standing behind her, feels herself smile. Even upside down she is breathtaking.

“I’ve been working on something,” Lizzie mutters, takes Hope’s face in her hands, thumbs stroking from ears to chin, fingertips teasing beneath her jaw. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“At three in the morning?”

“No better time than the witching hour.”

Beignets.

That’s the surprise. 

Smells like brown butter and vanilla, like only fried parties can smell. Like home, Hope thinks, although she has not called New Orleans home in what feels like centuries.

“You  _ baked _ ?”

Lizzie gets her perched up on the counter where she doesn’t have to rely on tiptoes or heels to put them even, from where all Hope needs to reach her mouth is an itty bitty lift of her chin. Like powdered sugar and sweet dough, that’s how Lizzie tastes. Like a bake shop in springtime, like a county fair, like everything good wrapped up in one perfect little parcel.

Not sure she can use little to describe Lizzie, she doesn’t think, or the height jabs won’t ever end, but it’s a happy thought. Especially when her mind wanders to mornings that see her rise well before the siphon, early enough to watch Lizzie grumble and turn over in her sleep to nestle against Hope’s chest like a puppy looking for extra warmth.

“If that smile isn’t for my beignets, you can show yourself out.”

“Easy,” Hope tells her, grinning around her thumb as she licks it clean of powdered sugar. Futile, really, as fingertips become brushed with white once again as she takes a pastry between thumb and forefinger and lifts it to Lizzie’s lips, mumbles, “Open.”

“Mmf,” Lizzie hums, mouth full. “God, I need to bake more often. ’M damn good at it.”

“Wouldn’t say no to that.”

Perhaps not, but Hope’s well on her way to forgetting about beignets and brown butter and baking altogether in favor of locking in on the dusting of powdered sugar across Lizzie’s lips.

When Hope kisses Lizzie it tastes like home: sweet and soft, warm and welcoming, and Hope doesn’t think she’ll ever get enough of the comfort she feels when Lizzie lays heavy hands on her waist and tugs her in close. Feels like the light at the end of the tunnel, she thinks, or drifting on cloud nine, or taking a first sip of cold water at the end of a scorching summer day. 

Lizzie’s always been comforting, comfortable, in her own way.

Like how desperately she clutches on when they kiss, how urgently her tongue slips in, how hungry she is for a taste of all that Hope is. Makes the tribrid feel wanted, for the most part, but also like she finally has a place in the world where nobody needs her to come to their rescue, because with Lizzie it’s never  _ save me _ but always  _ save ourselves together _ .

“No apple from Eden ever tasted this good,” Lizzie mumbles against her mouth, pulling her bottom lip with pearly white teeth. “So sweet and full of sin.”

Hope grins, takes her hands to Lizzie’s neck, and eases her fingers back through loose blonde waves, guiding the siphon to her throat. “Is that your way of saying a taste of me is enough to grant you the knowledge of good and evil?”

“More than enough,” Lizzie says against her skin.

If Hope is the forbidden fruit, and she does nothing but pull Lizzie in, keep her there, keep her fed, she may, too, be the serpent. And if Lizzie is Eve, curious and daring, insatiable and determined, with Hope she becomes Lilith: the first love, the scorned, a demon.

“ _ Her enchanted hair _ ,” Hope recites, tugging at blonde locks, as Lizzie mouths over the hollow of her throat, licking into her skin as if it were soft wet fruit, “ _ was the first gold _ .”

Lizzie bites at her jaw, dropping her hands to Hope’s thighs, guiding them up around her waist to lock herself in, tells her, “Don’t quote poetry I don’t know.”

“Not sorry.”

Nor is she sorry when a short time later Lizzie has her laid out on the counter with her tights on the floor and her panties pulled aside to leave her nearly bare and feeling wholly dirty, a quarter cold and two thirds burning. When Lizzie flips her skirt up to look at her Hope doesn’t think she’s ever felt so wanted.

Lizzie looks at her like she is the moon; the stars, too. Like she’s never seen the sun rise and this is her first dawn. It grounds her.

“Let me just…”

Hope feels hands on her knees, her thighs, fingertips stroking quivering muscle as she fights to keep her legs propped open without squirming. Nails scrape over hip bones and thumbs spread her open.

Lizzie sinks to her knees on the kitchen floor to put her right where she needs to be. Right where all she’s got to do to taste Hope on her tongue is lift her chin a little and take a lick.

And the first touch feels like silk, wet and warm, slick against the sensitive skin between her thighs, and Hope decides then and there that if she cared for religion it would be Lizzie she worshiped.

“Better than beignets?” she teases, brushing her thumb across Lizzie’s forehead and drawing her hair back.

She doesn’t get a response, not at first, not until Lizzie’s risen to her feet and dipped her fingers into Hope’s cunt and brought them to the tribrid’s mouth. “Try for yourself,” she says,” thumbing at Hope’s bottom lip until she opens her mouth to take them in. And something’s wrong, Hope realizes, or something’s  _ different _ because she doesn’t remember ever tasting so fucking sweet. Nor does she remember ever loving her own taste so much, enough to whimper and hum, to sigh and shiver.

It isn’t until she wrenches her eyes open that she understands. Powdered sugar dusts Lizzie’s knuckles, only a fraction as sugary as the smirk that sits on her lips.

“You just—”

“You liked it,” Lizzie says, and there’s no arguing with that.

“...Again.”

This time she watches, transfixed, heart thudding heavy in her chest as Lizzie coaxes her open with two fingers. She watches, breathless, as Lizzie takes those glistening fingers to the dish on the counter and dips them in and pulls them back with powdered sugar clinging to the slick.

“Go on,” Lizzie tells her, stilling her hand, an offering Hope knows she’s going to have to reach out and take.

And so she does, because one taste was enough to turn her thirst feral, but not enough to satiate the burn in her core. She’s always known she’d take just about anything from Lizzie, but this was never on this list, and she’s not sure if it’s now number one because it’s  _ Lizzie _ or if some part of her has always been hungry for something only she could give herself.

_ Conceited, cocky little cunt. _

That’s what Lizzie would say if she could see what Hope was thinking, and she’d say it with a grin.

This time Hope whines around Lizzie’s fingers, licking the wetness from them like it’s her hundredth day in the desert and the first time she’s seen water in just as long.

“Good girl,” Lizzie coos.

Wolves are supposed to growl. Hope purrs instead.

The growling comes later, when Lizzie lifts her back onto her feet and bends her over the counter for a change. It’d be a stretch if Lizzie weren’t so good at fitting Hope into whichever mold the siphon desires day by day.

The cold marble countertop beneath her chest makes her tummy tingle, heavy hands between her legs coat the rest of her in warmth, and she’s basking in the light of a trillion suns as she lets Lizzie manhandle her into submission.

It’s always a little soft at first with Lizzie, always a little hesitant, because while there are a thousand places Elizabeth Saltzman is nothing but confident in there are a thousand and one more where she needs to build a solid foundation before she takes the world by the reins.

In this case?

Hope is her world.

Her sweet little plaything, too, because relinquishing control in intimacy comes surprisingly easy to a girl who’s lived a lifetime of disappointment that hardened her heart and built walls around her ten miles high. Maybe it’s Lizzie that makes it easy for Hope.

And once it’s no longer soft?

When Lizzie eases a third finger into her and Hope clenches her thighs together?

When Lizzie pulls out, kicks her legs back open, slaps her hard between the thighs, and growls, “are you going to take this like you’re meant to, or do I need to string you up and leave you high and dry until you understand that this—” Lizzie lays a hand over her cunt, gentler now, unmoving, but still a possessive touch “—is mine to use however I see fit?”

When she tries to answer and Lizzie slips her fingers into her mouth so she can’t form words and all she  _ can _ do is take what she’s given there, too, and suck on the siphon’s long fingers until she lets up?

Hope’s never felt higher.

But Lizzie doesn’t let up, not really, just lowers to her knees and lifts Hope’s feet one by one to slip her into what feels like a pair of too-tight underwear until something presses up against her. Sinks into her, inch by inch, stretching her open wider than she’s felt in months. Snug elastic snaps around her hips and Hope feels  _ full _ . Feels a tingle of magic, too, low in her back, when Lizzie siphons from her, and she suspects she won’t be able to get out of this one without more of Lizzie’s magic.

“There,” Lizzie says, sounding smug, as she pulls Hope back to her feet. “That should keep your pretty little hole busy until I come wake you up in the morning.”

The silicone cock inside her, the one fused to the briefs Lizzie’s put her in, feels bigger when she stands. Feels like a part of her, but feels intrusive and huge and like she’s stretched wide open enough to take anything Lizzie might ever give her — all in the very best way.

Her legs nearly turn to jelly when she takes a step. Lizzie steadies her with a smirk, gives her a little kiss on the temple, and gives her a nudge toward the doorway.

“Go get some sleep, little wolf,” the siphon teases, “and try not to think about me too much.

Hope knows good and well that she’s going to try and fail, miserably, at both of those things.


End file.
